Ice Fishing

In the South, ice is a summer thing. It keeps your lemonade or your sweet tea cold and refreshing as you sit on the loggia, under lazily spinning fans, watching puffy clouds drift across the Smoky Mountain vista. You dump bags of it into coolers when you are going picnicking or fishing so that your food and drinks don’t become tepid. It is a necessity in long, hot, humid days. It is a friend. A blessing.

In North Dakota, ice is a winter thing. It hides as a slippery crust under deepening blankets of new-fallen snow. It hangs in long, glistening icicles from eaves and mailboxes and trees. It creeps across the glistening surface of quiet lakes . . . thickening day by day . . . until even the fish are encased below its opaque coldness. It is a fact to contend with and can even be a danger to plan for. It is a familiar companion . . . even a friend, when you get to fish on it.

When I tell my friends here in East Tennessee that I went ice fishing, they just shake their head in southern skepticism. When I tell them it was a worthy adventure and absolutely fun, they stare at me in stunned disbelief. But . . . they never went fishing with Kirk.

Kirk Ohlheiser was utterly prepared for this adventure. He had all the gear. Trust me . . . alllllllllll the gear. He brought two ice huts, two heaters, a large auger, fishing poles, and live minnows. Holly brought sandwiches, chips, and beverages for the whole crew. And, of course, we had our borrowed “warm clothing gear” that Holly had procured from her friend. So we loaded up the trucks and drove to the boonies. Southerners were going ice fishing.

First, I had to emotionally deal with the idea of traversing across a frozen lake. I had heard stories of people falling through ice. Everything in my southern mentality screamed that winter lakes were full of very cold WATER . . . even if the water was temporarily hidden by a small crust of ice. If I was going to pull this off gracefully, pure Reid grit would have to win over southern sensibility.

Mercifully, Kirk decided to haul all the gear out onto our fishing destination by foot instead of driving. That saved me the embarrassment of frantically flinging the truck door open, dumping myself into the ridiculously deep snow, and walking across the lake all by myself. I had already made a very loud, solemn promise to everyone in the truck that I WOULD NOT, by any means of coercion, DRIVE onto that ice. If I was going down into the numbing waters through the ice, I WOULD NOT DO IT in a truck. I was quite sure God had heard my panicked prayers when Kirk decided that we would park the trucks and walk.

I learned several things on our adventure out onto that frozen lake:

First, the exertion of hauling gear is morphed into Everest-like effort when the air is too cold to breathe. Tucking your face into your scarf helps until your breath condenses into ice on the scarf’s fibers. Then nothing helps.

Second, laughing keeps you warm. It shoots life-giving joy through your lungs and your body and your soul. And it keeps your definitions of the adventure from wandering into thoughts of impossibility.

Third, frozen lakes are the perfect place to make snow angels. Unbelievably perfect. But if you refuse to fall back and try to make your own, Rachel will shove you backwards to encourage the process. Ask Mattie.

Fourth, trust Kirk. He doesn’t just ice fish, he ice fishes IN STYLE. Gracious service. Lush accommodations. And a delightful dose of very dry humor to keep everyone sharp. If you MUST go ice fishing, go with Kirk.

Fifth, everything freezes on ice. That seems like a grand statement of the obvious, but it is really true. Beverages freeze. Sandwiches freeze. Feet freeze. Even the fishing hole you just augured freezes over and captures your fishing line in its incessant grip. THAT, I finally figured out, was what the spoon scoop was for. It wasn’t a soup ladle. It was an ice-crust scooper. Go figure.

Sixth, girls fish differently than guys. David, my husband and I were in one hut. Holly, Rachel, Jamie, Mattie, and Chad were in the other hut. Kirk, stationed in my hut, visited between both huts to make sure everyone was fine. My hut was the “guy hut.” My hut was quiet. Chad endured the “girl hut.” I am not really sure what transpired in the other hut, but it sure sounded like a hoot-n-holler hoe-down to me. I never heard a peep from Chad, however. The only real excitement in our hut was when my husband decided to dump some of the live minnows into our fishing hole to see if he could coax some big fish our direction. We all sat around that hole, watching the minnows swim in a circle, while my husband declared, “Be free, little guys! Be free!” Ice eventually starts to mess with a southerner’s sanity, apparently.

Frozen lakes are starkly beautiful places. The only noise is your noise. The only warmth is the richness of your fellowship and the dependability of your heaters. The only colors are the white of the snow, the azure-gray of the ice, and the deep, cold blue of the North Dakota sky. And when the sun goes down, the deepening strokes of orange, purple and pink are stunning beyond description. I loved it in such a deeply, satisfying way. As we were chatting in our hut, David wistfully said, “I could stay here all night.” I understood.

We didn’t catch any fish that day, but we captured a memory that will last a life-time. When I talk with my Tennessee friends about it, their minds can’t really get past the idea of that much ice and that much snow and that much cold. They gaze at me extremely doubtfully when I say that they would love it. I guess you just had to be there. With Kirk and Holly and the gang.

They would love it.

I am sure.

Psalms 46:10-11
Lesa K. Reid

North Dakota Adventure Part Two: The Warmth of North Dakota Cold

The written word can be so limiting. You simply need wild gestures and a passionately inflected voice to convey some things. But rich, deep, soul-nourishing experiences deserve to be communicated and shared. Even if their retelling stretches the writer’s skill with crafting words. And even if the real treasures of the matter lie wordlessly in the heart.

Holly’s big idea was that we should all go sledding. She had borrowed extra winter gear from a friend and convinced us all to pile on the layers for an afternoon excursion. It wasn’t until I stood at the top of the hill that a tiny panic alarm started beeping somewhere in my subconscious. I suddenly remembered that “redneck” joke where the punch line reads:

What’s a redneck’s last words?
“Hey y’all . . . wa-chis!”
Translation for my North Dakota friends:
“Attention everyone! Watch this foolish Tennessean do something really stupid!”

Several things about this venture were beginning to give me pause.

First, it was cold. Not the Tennessee kind of cold where you put on your hoodie because the temperatures might dip below freezing. It was a North Dakota cold. Where your own breath freezes on your eyelashes because the wind chill factor registers in negative double digits. If you can breathe at all.

Secondly, I wondered exactly how dense my 49-year-old bones really were. And how much opposing force could my joints and tendons actually tolerate? I was watching other people speed down the hill. The frequency of wipe-outs seemed pretty high.

Thirdly, I was wise enough to understand that what goes down must also come up. My fledgling experiences with walking on snow-covered ice nudged me to consider what challenge awaited me on the uphill trudge. Did I actually have the stamina for it?

True to form, however, Southern Pride won out over tenative musings. In the same spirit that adventurers traveled across these Great Plains many years ago on a quest for gold . . . “California or Bust” . . . I struck out on a quest for the prize of the greatest sled run ever . . . bust or not!

I will never forget that first race down the hill. The sheer panic, absolute abandon, and utter exhilaration will be frozen in my mind forever. My husband rode in the front and I was tucked in behind him. We had challenged Chad and Jamie to a race and our Reid competitive spirit had taken control of the moment. I reached behind the sled to give us an extra boost at the starting line. Then I heard the clear, familiar sound that pushed all fear aside and sent me shooting down the hillside with hoot-n-hollering southern joy. Holly . . . my dear North Dakota friend . . . was laughing.

We careened down the hill quite a few times that afternoon. Sometimes we managed to stay on the sled. A couple of times we graced the slope with our own version of tumbling acrobatics. But every run was absolutely joyous. All previous trepidation was gone. I didn’t break any bones or strain any muscles. Everyone had a blast. Holly’s big idea was a total success.

It started snowing again as my husband and I labored up the slope for the last time. I stopped for a moment to catch my breath. Evening was descending across the winter landscape and it was time to leave. I took a snapshot, in my heart, of the drifting flakes and the freezing wind. I listened to the sound of muffled footsteps as they sank into the deepening powder. I wanted to remember it all. The ice on David’s beard. Rachel’s red cheeks and dancing eyes. Mattie tucked snuggly inside her fur-lined hat. Jamie’s cheery chattering and Chad’s quiet grin.

And Holly laughing.
Such a treasure.
Could there ever be anything warmer than that?

Psalms 46:10-11
Lesa K. Reid

North Dakota Adventure Part One: Fresh Tracks in the Snow

Sometimes you have to get out of your comfortable routines . . . and go on extraordinary adventures . . . to test the mettle of your own beliefs. Wake up in the morning to a different vista. Go trekking on totally fresh ground. If what you have always believed about joy and love and friendship and family are really enduring and really true, then your travels will find you enjoying comradeship among the most distant people and experiencing warm familiarity even in the most unprecedented moments.

North Dakota in the winter is definitely an unusual place to find an East Tennessean. But Rachel Ohlheiser, my son’s Fargo-born-and-raised girlfriend, finally convinced us that THIS year was the PERFECT year to spend Christmas week with her family in Bismarck. So we packed our bags, donned our new, hand-crocheted scarves, and left Kirkhaven to the care of faithful friends. “This year,” we assured our fellow southerners, “the Reids will have a white Christmas!”

After leaving Knoxville, we had two layovers sandwiched between three flights. When we finally arrived in Fargo, happy for the journey but weary from the travel, Dave met us at the baggage claim and escorted us to the double-cab truck he had borrowed from Rachel’s father Kirk. Dave’s truck, a red Toyota Tacoma, wouldn’t have been sufficient for the next day’s drive to Bismarck. We would be travelling with three adults, one teenager, one German Short-haired Pointer, and a plethora of bags and satchels. We were very grateful for Kirk’s generous offer of his vehicle.

We deposited our luggage at the hotel and headed to the restaurant where Dave had arranged for us to enjoy a late dinner with several of his friends. We were excited to meet the young men and women we had heard so much about. It was during our walk across the airport parking lot and then our drive through the city of Fargo that the reality of snow began to settle into my heart.

There was snow everywhere. In all the parking lots. On all the roads. In every yard. And, whether my stunned, southern mind could believe it or not, there was even snow beginning to drift down through the cloudy, night sky. Shouldn’t we rush outside and frantically start a snowball fight? Shouldn’t we hoop and holler and dance around at the wonder of a landscape blanketed in white? Shouldn’t we hurry and grab a sled and try to enjoy it all while it lasted? Nope. No bluster. No hurry. This wasn’t the South. The snow would still be there in the morning. As a matter of fact, it wouldn’t be melting until spring.

I made a fresh set of tracks in the snow that unbelievably cold North Dakota night. I stepped off the sidewalk at Ground Round Restaurant and let my southern feet sink deeply into the pristine whiteness. I didn’t tell a soul. I just did it.

And I made myself four solemn vows that evening at the start of our North Dakota Adventure:

1. I would make tracks in the snow every chance I got.

2. I would find a pristine patch of winter landscape and fall backwards into the whiteness to swish out the perfect snow angel.

3. I would watch my son and his huntin’ dog Abe traipse across the North Dakota prairie in search of pheasant.

4. I would NEVER, NEVER demean myself by squeeling in freaked-out-southern-terror as my son slipped and slid the truck across ice-covered streets. Even when he did it purposely. Even when he did it grinning.

I kept every promise. Even the squeeling one . . . you can ask Dave. But I could have never dreamed how perfectly or unexpectedly or wondrously each vow would be kept . . .

Did I find adventure outside of my comfortable southern routines?

You becha.

Was there love and joy and friendship and family even in the subzero winter of Bismarck, North Dakota?

Yup. All of that, and even more.

Psalms 46:10-11
Lesa K. Reid